Tag: birds

I attempted and failed a realism drawing exercise that became a page of sequential life moment representations

(see previous)

book club insights

It has become a new tradition to visit the local Costco on weekends just to watch people and observe America in amusement, horror, and disillusionment

the tragic irony of young gulls killing themselves accidentally off of the roof of the Pacific Grove Museum of Natural History where I worked. Just tragic.

I left my museum job after two years.

Began working with the college students of the autism spectrum population as an Academic Art Tutor in Monterey. I love this work so much! (August 2016)

Married the man literally and figuratively of my dreams at Mission San Juan Bautista, a place dear to the history of our hearts. (October 8)

I cried two times the morning the monster was elected. (November 2016)

Limited social media intake, saved a bunch of time! Made major daily and yearly art goals and continued portrait painting and daily drawing or painting.

(missing) obviously I can’t count, I never was into math

Studying scriptures, reading novels, writing poetry early in the morning

The Miracle Morning book inspired me to elaborate on my early mornings and the a general need to discipline stress management inspired me to throw some kicks and punches on a regular basis

After days of rain the vultures like to display their wings in the mornings in the trees outside the apartment and I admire their Dracula style. One time I watched one grooming itself and suddenly stun itself as it accidentally pulled out a feather, and watched it twirl slowly to the ground. And then I ran out to grab it for no reason really. Yes I happened to get lucky while taking pictures of them.

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Noticing My Hand

–Stacey Gentry – 11/14/16

A woman examines her mind

too close and falls along the seashore rocks. *

She wonders where the gentle swallows will

nest now without their red tile caves,

which for the past few days were pried

by crowbars screeching nails

up

creaking coffin lids

above her ceiling, sounds she could feel in

her cringing teeth while the roofers

went on singing with their own.

She smells fire **

and senses a hand she decided to accept

the assuming way a crows’

humble ration is buried

in weeds by the dull blade of a beak.

We think we use the tools we have been given.

Another woman nearby

her shell is thick, she sits and draws.

She draws a lady on the ground begging

a black bird

for its only treasure.

She is still

while she watches she can feel

her hair grow and, watch

she unravels the corkscrewed self,

Stretches it out with her mind like two hands

bracketing negative film to the light.

She is thinking of a woman who just,

died*** who first descended, into a

mind-less-ness, body-less -ness—-

unfamiliarity

her art could never name

until there was nothing left

but her soul. It seemed cruel

for one’s spirit to be abandoned by

its body and its mind and nothing

but vague clues in her leftover art.

As a woman

and an artist

this one knew the signs along the way

that sometimes get pushed away,

mistaken deception, illusions.

Now, an ultimatum for retrieval—-no,

desperately, creation—-while she still

thought she did not know, but you see

every night she did actually know.

We use the tools we have been given until

we realize, we create our own tools. She knew,

subconscious as a feather sprouting in a wing

so she drew, drew it out of her

until her shell would sing.

Ashes** fell on clean laundry back at home

where she dutifully prayed with her lover

No one would ever believe her,

how it coalesced, how she did resurrect her

willpower. Because, two out of three birds die when

they try to fly for the first time.

They must forget to bring their spirits

with them, this, the women, they saw.

Except two stopped at the tools and

one did see the ship she could build,

the ship that in the future would save her.

We use the tools we have been given to create

our own tools, to create something more.

A hand dives into the scenery from the future

like a dove and asks her to trust it, to take it,

this is her own hand.

—

*At Point Lobos a woman fell between the rocks who I helped up, I had been sitting from aways away watching her recognizing the internal contemplation that can be so distracting

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